


Sins of the Father

by ASongofIceandHope



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BIG CANON DIVERGENCE, F/M, No Time Turner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2019-08-27 20:33:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16709560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASongofIceandHope/pseuds/ASongofIceandHope
Summary: Tom Riddle has finally come home, even if he isn’t the most welcome of interlopers in the Riddle household. He’s different and he knows it. But when the house fills with his father’s old school chums and their families, he realizes he might not be the only one.





	1. Saturdays

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, 
> 
> Let me start by saying: I knowwwwww I have two WIPs right now and a comp fic to work on, but I really wanted to write a fic where Tom is raised by the Riddles.
> 
> As I said in the tag, there isn’t any time travel; Hermione was born in 1926 and the Grangers are just in Tom’s time instead of her jumping through time and yada yada yada.
> 
> Without further ado, here’s the first chapter!

Tom loathed Saturdays.

Saturdays were the most miserable, horrid, wretched day of the week in his not-so-humble opinion, and if he ruled over the British Empire, he would do away with them altogether. 

The reason Tom couldn’t stand Saturdays was because Saturday was the day of the week that wealthy families from the surrounding countryside liked to come into London and go around to the orphanages and see if there was a child they’d either like to sponsor or adopt. That meant Friday night was filled with children fighting for turns at the wash basins and scrubbing at themselves until pink, the girls all tying their hair up with scraps of fabric so the following morning they would have limp curls. 

Tom never bothered with the fuss. He would wait until the morning, calmly wash himself and comb his hair, and then dress in his usual dull clothes and line up so the visitors could get a chance to look at him. 

He thought all the families were absolutely thick. Some of the children at Wool’s who had been adopted were far from remarkable, and Tom knew he was special. It certainly wasn’t his fault if the adults couldn’t see it; none of the adults at the orphanage knew. They were all scared of him. Not that he hadn’t given them reason to be; Tom was rather certain Billy was still sniffling over his rabbit and that particular incident had happened more than two weeks ago. 

Still, it was Saturday, and even the thought of getting back at Billy Stubbs didn’t make Tom’s mood lighten any.

And when he went downstairs and Mrs. Cole called him aside to her office, Tom’s temperament turned toward nothing short of grim. He hadn’t done anything to anyone since the rabbit incident, so why he had to meet with the awful woman in her tiny, dim office was beyond him.

Tom admittedly hadn’t been paying any attention whatsoever to what Mrs. Cole was saying to him on the short walk to her office, so when she opened the door and a family of three was sitting opposite her desk, he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at them as they turned around to look at him. 

The trio was made up of two men and one woman. They were all adults, but it seemed to Tom that the older man and woman were around the same age and likely married. He then assumed that the younger man was their son. The woman seemed the only one that was pleased to see him, and offered a small smile that Tom nearly returned. But the two men sat stiffly in their chairs and simply stared at him. There was something in the younger man’s face that Tom found painfully familiar and Tom found himself growing frustrated that he couldn’t quite figure out where he’d seen him before.

“That’s the boy?” The older man questioned, looking to Mrs. Cole finally. 

“Yes, this is Tom,” she confirmed before addressing Tom herself. “Tom, this is your family... your real family. They’ve come to take you home.”

Tom’s mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. His anger felt palpable, but the wheels in his head had also started to turn. He could tell by the way the Riddles were dressed that they were wealthier than the other families that came to the orphanage, and that would be to Tom’s advantage.

Tom sat next to the woman — his grandmother — as his father and grandfather filled out all the necessary paperwork. His grandmother opened her pocketbook and reached in, handing him a biscuit wrapped in a bit of cloth. It was a chocolate biscuit (Tom’s favorite) and he nibbled on it quietly until he was told to go get his things. 

“That won’t be necessary,” his father said. “We plan to take Tom shopping before we return to Little Hangleton.”

Tom’s mind wandered to the little tin buried in the corner of his dresser, but quickly shook any thought of it from his mind. He wasn’t going to have to worry about Wool’s Orphanage any longer. He was finally free of the miserable place.

When they left, Tom walked beside his father. While his grandparents, Thomas and Mary, went ahead of them and got into the family car, his father stopped on the stoop of the orphanage and looked down at Tom.

“So you can make strange... things happen, like she could?” he asked, taking a silver cigarette case out from a pocket inside his jacket. 

“Yes,” Tom answered, staring back up at him. 

“Learn to control it better than she could,” Tom Sr. sighed before following his parents down the steps. Tom stayed right on his heels, saying nothing more to him but wanting to ask more questions. So his mother had been special like him, but she couldn’t control it; why? Tom surmised that she hadn’t been very capable — something Tom planned on being the exact opposite of. Even at the tender age of ten, Tom found he didn’t have patience for people who weren’t capable. 

Tom so hoped his father was a capable person, even if he couldn’t do the same special things Tom could. It would be a gross disappointment if he wasn’t. 

The car ride to the Riddle’s home seemed to take forever. By the time his father had turned the car up a long, winding drive, the sun had set. Tom had entertained himself by keeping track of the signs for different cities and towns and villages he saw, and noted that Little Hangleton was near Carnarvon, making his father’s family firmly Welsh. So, he supposed, that made him Welsh too.

Tom got out of the car at the same time as everyone else and wandered into the stately manor home before him. 

The Riddle House was an imposing but well-situated structure on the top of a hill. Its exterior was composed of grey stone, and there were many well-kept trees surrounding it. Tom vaguely realized that one day the stately home would belong to him; he found the thought pleased him and when he was greeted by a butler gave his coat to him with a slight nod.

A small fleet of servants appeared when his grandfather rang a bell, and Tom took note. He counted twelve servants in all. 

“Mrs. Hawkins, would you be so kind as to show Tom,” his grandfather gestured back to him, “to his new bedroom? And then Tom Sr. and I will be taking a nightcap in the drawing room, Cooper, so—”

“You’d like me to retrieve your cigar box from the study?” an older man who seemed to be between Tom’s father and grandfather in age finished. 

“Right you are,” Thomas Riddle nodded.

The woman who had been standing next to Cooper stepped toward Tom while the rest of the household went about their business. She smiled down at him and he stared right back up at her. “Oh, you look just like your father,” she complimented. “You can follow me up the stairs, and we’ll get you settled in for the night.”

His new room was located on the second floor of the estate and afforded him a pleasing view of the grounds. There was a model airplane kit on his new desk, and there were some maps on the walls; it looked like a boy’s room from a department store advertisement. 

“If you need anything, you can ring the kitchen here,” Mrs. Hawkins pointed out a buzzer built into the wall near his door. “Goodnight, Mister Tom.”

“Goodnight,” Tom nodded to her.

He looked around and exhaled slowly.

At last.

He was alone.


	2. Sundays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is wow; I’m so flattered and humbled by the responses the first chapter of this fic got. I really hope I can continue to live up to everyone’s expectations and write both Tom and the Riddles well.
> 
> Without further ado, here’s chapter two!

“Get up, boy.”

A newspaper whacked Tom upside the head as he tried to sleep. It was Sunday morning and Tom always tried to sleep in on Sundays, even though it could be difficult at the orphanage; there was usually a minister of some sort that would show up and teach them bible stories and other fairytales that the other children all dedicated to memory while Tom let each of them go in one ear and out the other for the most part.

With a grumble, Tom sat up to find his grandfather looming over him. 

“In this family, we go to church on Sunday mornings,” he stated. “And you are part of this family, are you not?” Tom bit his tongue and nodded, climbing out of bed and shuffling to his closet. 

He got dressed in a proper boy’s suit and made sure to comb his hair nicely before going downstairs. His grandparents and father were waiting for him downstairs, dressed in what Tom was sure was their Sunday best. After his grandmother had ceremoniously fussed over him a bit, they departed on foot to the local parish. Tom had secretly hoped they would take the car; he had liked the car. 

The old manor home was almost out of sight before anyone spoke.

“Have you ever been to a proper church service, boy?” Thomas Riddle questioned, glancing only momentarily in Tom’s general direction. 

Tom shook his head. “No, sir,” he replied.

“Just as I thought,” his grandfather grumbled. Mary and Tom Sr. both exchanged glances but said nothing to the family patriarch as they arrived at the church. 

It wasn’t a secret that orphans didn’t get much by way of an education; most of what Tom had learned he’d had to teach himself, either through the scarce amount of books available to him or by nicking some on the off chance he was able to slip away from Wool’s. But there were plenty of children in the orphanage who had faith. Tom knew the story of the flood and of the Exodus, of the nativity and Christ’s resurrection, but it was all a bunch of rubbish to him. All of it except the power to come back from the dead; that seemed to have merit. 

Tom pondered that ability as his family greeted the Vicar on their way inside. The fellow was tall and willowy, with wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on a long, thin nose. 

“Welcome home, young Mister Riddle,” he greeted. 

“Thank you, sir,” Tom said, though his face was nothing short of expressionless as he quickly moved past him to take a seat with his family in the sanctuary. 

When the service began, Tom hadn’t been sure what to expect. But there was something enchanting about the manner in which a church service was conducted. He thought the whole religion thing was a load of rubbish, of course, but the theatrics of it all... it made sense why simple people bought into the whole thing. It was smoke and mirrors. Everything from the priest’s robes to the incense to the hymns... it was all orchestrated to trigger an emotional response from the parishioners. 

And Tom took note.

The service was only an hour long, and while Tom had been intrigued by the whole thing he was happy to be back in the fresh air and on the road toward home again. He walked beside his father, who had taken his cigarette case out once more. The silver case glinted in the sunlight, and Tom noted that it was monogrammed.

“Can I have one?” Tom asked, curious about the appeal of tobacco. He remembered a couple of children at the orphanage had smoked, and when Mrs. Cole had caught them... well, it had been unfortunate. 

“Absolutely not,” Tom Sr. scolded. 

“It’s a nasty habit,” Mary tacked on. “I do wish they’d both quit.”

“Then why do you do it?” Tom’s stare intensified as he focused on his father. “If you wouldn’t have me do it, why do you?”

“Precocious little thing, aren’t you?” Tom Sr. huffed. “I do it because I am old enough and when you are grown and you wish to, you may.” 

“But—”

“Tom.” 

The Riddles had stopped walking and Tom stared up at his father. Tom Sr. grit his teeth and clenched his fists at his sides. 

“Honestly,” Thomas grunted. “You,” he pointed at his son, “will learn how to control your brat. And you,” he turned a quivering finger in Tom’s direction, “will respect your father. He doesn’t have to give you a reason not to do something. You’ve got to listen. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Tom said.

He looked at his father and Tom frowned. He wanted to make that cigarette smolder to ashes. He could do it. He could. 

But then he felt a gloved hand rest on his shoulders and a biscuit appeared in front of him.

“I’m not hungry,” he grumbled to his grandmother.

“I’m sure you’re not,” Mary tutted. “But best keep that temper in check, dear boy.” With a small huff, he took the biscuit and munched on it. “You’ve got quite a burden to bear, being their heir. But you’re a smart boy, I trust? A tough boy?”

“Yes, grandmother,” Tom nodded. 

“Good,” she smiled. “You need to be.”

Feeling more in control of his emotions, Tom resisted the urge to set all his father’s cigarettes on fire and trudged along. He was going to have to play the long game with his family, it would seem; he could not assert his will over them just yet. 

Supper was laid out for them at home and Tom sat and ate quietly, listening to the little conversation that his father and grandparents were having. 

“... they’ll be arriving in the morning...”

“... make sure the rooms are in order.”

“... Hawkins will take good care of it...”

“Who’s coming?” Tom inquired. “Are we having guests?”

“It’s none of your business,” Thomas clucked. 

“Father,” Tom Sr. shot him a look. He looked at his son and took a drag from a cigarette — his fifth of the day; Tom had counted. “Tom, if you must know, some of my old school friends will be coming for the week. A few of them are bringing their children along; you will have some playmates. How does that sound?”

Tom raised a brow. “I suppose that would be nice,” he hummed. 

Adults were difficult to scare, but children? Children were easy. He would actually get to enjoy himself. And he couldn’t imagine what kind of children he would have to deal with; probably all mindless dolts, but they would be easy to control that way. 

“There’ll be no funny business, young man,” Thomas warned. 

Tom straightened up slightly in his chair and turned to look his grandfather directly in the eye. “Of course not, grandfather,” he smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Of course, if Tom had known what would be waiting for him in the parlor the following afternoon, he wouldn’t have been quite so giddy about the prospect of having new playmates to torment. Had he known, he would have been bracing himself for a storm, not preparing to launch himself headfirst into his latest endeavor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Riddles are going to have guests soon... three guesses as to who might be amongst them...? ;)
> 
> Let me know what sort of antics you think Tom will get up to while the Riddles host some of Tom Sr’s friends!


	3. Guests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the chapter we’ve all been waiting for has arrived; I’m excited for it and I love it when two certain people finally get to meet.
> 
> Also thanks to Ninja for probably inspiring some of the action between our two faves...

Tom ran down the stairs the following morning, newly completed model airplane in hand. He planned on spending his morning exploring the grounds before the guests arrived, so he could show the other children around — mostly so he’d know where he could best torment them if necessary. 

Those plans changed when he reached the first floor and skidded to a halt at the sight of a girl. 

She had to be around his age, as she was close to his height and wasn’t feminine in any way beyond the fact that she was wearing a dress. Her hair was a raucous mountain of curls, and her nose was smattered with freckles. Tom noted she also had a book tucked under her arm, which meant she would not likely be willing to go outside and play with him. 

“Hullo,” Tom greeted, wanting her to pay attention to him and quit wandering around the entryway. She jumped slightly, eyes bugging at the sight of him.

“Oh, hello,” she said upon recovering. “You must be Mr. Riddle’s son.”

“Yes, I’m Tom,” he confirmed for her. “And who are you? Dad didn’t say anything about girls coming to the house.” His nose wrinkled slightly for dramatic effect. The unnamed girl crossed her arms over her chest and huffed.

“I’m Hermione,” she provided. “My dad went to school with your dad, and as such... I was brought along.” 

“Really?” Tom drawled. “And here I thought you were going to be the new kitchen maid?”

Hermione’s jaw dropped, which was just the reaction Tom wanted. He made his way past her into the sitting room, bumping into her as he did with his shoulder, only to wade into a cloud of cigar smoke. Judging by the polluted air, it would seem that his father’s friends had all arrived in the morning, and not the afternoon like Tom thought they would.

“Tom?” Tom Sr. sighed. “What are you doing in here? The rest or the boys are outside playing a pick-up game of rugby. You ought to go join them.”

“Bloody hell, Tommy,” a rather plump man standing beside his father exclaimed. “Your boy looks just like you. Looks the same as you did when we first met at Harrow.” This observation caused some of the other men to make similar comments, but Tom ignored them all and stared up at his father.

“Hermione can’t play rugby, though, father,” he pointed out. “Hermione’s a girl.”

“Hermione can watch,” Tom Sr. huffed. “Now go on! Go play and be a normal ten-year-old boy for once.” Tom’s brow furrowed and he shuffled back out of the sitting room, thankful to be free of the oppressive cigar smoke. 

When he emerged, Hermione was sitting on the staircase, reading the book she’d brought.

“What are you reading?” Tom asked as he stood in front of her on the stairs.

“The Hound of the Baskervilles,” Hermione replied without looking up. “Are you always this nosy?”

“No,” was Tom’s short reply. “Come outside. The other boys are playing and I have to play with them.” This made Hermione look up from her book, and Tom noticed that she dog-eared the page like he did. It always made Mrs. Cole mad that he ruined the pages like that, but it felt nice to make a crease in the page, like it was his own special marked page.

“I’m not a boy,” she reminded.

“I know that, I’m not stupid,” Tom scowled. “I meant, you’re going to go outside and watch us all play.” 

Now Hermione had set her book aside completely and Tom was hooked. He didn’t know what it was about the girl in particular — maybe it was because she was the first of the children he’d had the chance to interact with — but he could tell that he was going to get hours of amusement going rounds with her until he managed to get her. 

“I don’t want to watch a bunch of boys tackle each other into the dirt,” she sniffed. 

“I didn’t give you an option,” Tom frowned. 

“You’re mean,” Hermione frowned back. 

“I can be meaner,” Tom stuck his chin out. Then, as he eyed her defenseless book, he grinned a devilish grin and snatched it up. 

“Hey!” Hermione shouted, springing to her feet. “Give that back!”

But Tom had already opened the book and begun to shred the adventures of Holmes and Watson to pieces. Hermione was crying and reaching for her book, shoving at him and making a whole fuss, but that only made Tom tear the pages into tinier pieces. 

“Stop, stop, STOP!” Hermione screamed, and on the final word gave him a strong shove. When her fingers touched his back, Tom howled in pain at the feeling; it was as if he’d been struck by lightning. “Give it back, you awful boy!”

The doors to the sitting room had since flown open upon the start of the ruckus and Tom Sr. and a short but slender auburn-haired man were quickly separating the children.

“Daddy,” Hermione sniffled to the man, “Tom stole my book and he tore the pages from it!”

Tom, who was still trying to process what had exactly happened when Hermione had shoved him, was too in shock to deny his guilt. 

“You’re going to fix Miss Granger’s book and you’re going to apologize,” Tom Sr. scolded. “And if the book isn’t fixed by supper, you have to let Hermione pick one of your own books to take as compensation. Am I understood?” 

Tom nodded, glaring daggers at the girl who was still a slobbery, snotty mess. 

When the adults had retreated back to their cigars and brandy, Tom turned on Hermione and grabbed her by the shoulders. “How did you do that?” he questioned. “When you shoved me? How did you shock me?”

Hermione shook her head. “I-I dunno, exactly,” she mumbled. “When I get upset, sometimes I can make strange things happen. Why?”

Instead of explaining to Hermione why he’d asked, Tom focused all his might on the torn pages scattered about the floor. It was going to take a lot of effort — focusing his powers always did — but slowly, the tattered pieces of paper began to flutter and rejoin together, and in a small whirlwind, the book was once again whole. Tom held it out to her.

“How did you-?”

“You’re special,” Tom told her. “Like me. You can make things happen to people when they hurt you. I can too. But I can do other things too, like that. Can you?”

Hermione shuffled her feet. “I changed the color of our cat once,” she admitted. 

Tom grinned a little at that and Hermione looked out the window to see the boys roughhousing. She didn’t like the thought of Tom getting in the middle of all that, but she also had a feeling that none of the boys would mess with him after a while. 

“Let’s go outside,” Tom motioned to her. Reluctantly, Hermione followed. 

While Tom launched himself straight into the heat of battle in the rugby match, Hermione sat on the stoop and watched the boys go back and forth across the lawn until the sun went down. All the other boys ignored her as they marched inside to go to bed, but Tom stopped and stared at her in his weird way.

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he said.

“Goodnight, Tom,” she returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are they friends now? Maybe? I’m not sure, honestly. Tom at least has a little respect for our favorite witch...
> 
> Let me know what you think of our two favorites meeting!


	4. Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I am so delighted by the outpouring of support I’ve received for this fic; it’s made me very excited and eager to keep up with it!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, which develops Tom’s relationship with his father a bit more.

The week went by too quickly in Tom’s opinion.

Maybe it was because he’d finally found someone like him, maybe it was because he’d discovered that he rather enjoyed playing rugby, but he was somewhat sad to watch the guests leave. 

Tom stood in front of his father and said goodbye to the other children while the fathers exchanged parting words. Some of the boys seemed in more of a hurry to get out of his presence than others, and Tom tried his best not to smirk when they did. 

The last family to leave was the Grangers. 

Hermione bounded down the stairs and landed right in front of Tom. She smiled at him with those big front teeth of hers and Tom returned the grin, sticking his hand out for a shake. Her fingers wrapped around his hand as she accepted the proffered hand, giving it a firm shake. 

“See you around, Tom,” she said. “Perhaps you can come visit us sometime.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea!” Mr. Granger exclaimed. “Hermione is an only child too; her mother and I often think she needs more playmates.”

“We’ll see, William,” Tom Sr. stated as he shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“Bye, Hermione,” Tom echoed as the Grangers made their way out of the house. Once the door was closed, he launched himself into the sitting room and stuck his face right against the window, watching as they drove out of sight. She didn’t look back, he noted, and that made Tom frown slightly. 

“Get your hands off the window, boy,” Thomas grunted as he hit Tom over the head with a rolled newspaper. “They cleaned those this morning.”

Tom bit back a sigh and plopped back down on the sofa. The boredom set in rather quickly once everyone had left. So Tom did what he always did when he was able to be alone: he read. Without saying another word, he got up and went to the library, browsing the shelves until a rather heavy volume caught his eye. It was wedged tightly into the shelves, and Tom nearly fell backward trying to wedge it out, but when he did, his eyes gleamed at the title.

“David Copperfield by Charles Dickens,” Tom read aloud to himself. He’d heard Hermione talk about Dickens with his grandmother, and she’d admitted he was her favorite author. “Alright, Mr. Dickens. Let’s find out why Hermione loves you so.”

Book in hand, Tom climbed into one of the study’s overstuffed leather chairs and turned to the first page. 

By the time he was called for dinner, Tom was around a hundred pages into the novel and, for the life of him, he could not understand why Hermione loved Charles Dickens so. In Tom’s opinion, he was wordy and long-winded, not to mention sentimental. Still, he had the book tucked under his arm when he entered the dining room. 

“No reading at the dinner table,” Thomas chided. 

“Fine,” Tom got up from his seat. “I’ll be taking my supper in the study.”

“No you will not,” his grandfather slammed his fist down on the table. Mary jumped slightly and Tom Sr. set down his silverware to look at his father. “We took you in, knowing what you are, so you will be a part of this family.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. With a loud crack, Thomas’ glass shattered in his hand. 

In the commotion that followed, Tom dashed out of the room and sprinted up the stairs. He ran because he knew it was better to try and hide, to wait out the punishment instead of lining up like an idiot to take it. His father followed him, his longer strides making it easy for him to catch up to Tom, who was flying around corners to barricade himself in his room. 

“Tom,” Tom Sr. sighed as he knocked on his door. “Open the door.”

“No,” Tom huffed. Tom Sr. reached for the doorknob and found it was burning hot to the touch. He decided to take another route.

“Fine then, have it your way,” he hummed. “Though I was going to give you a present.”

Tom Sr. heard the shuffle of feet on the other side, and the door opened just a crack. Tom peeked out at him, brows raised incredulously. 

“But I just hurt grandfather,” he pointed out.

“You did, but I think this gift might help you work on controlling your temper,” Tom Sr. explained as he entered Tom’s bedroom. 

Tom sat on his bed and watched as his father fished a small package from his back pocket. It was wrapped in plain paper and had no markings on it. He accepted the small gift and tore the paper from it, only to frown slightly. 

“It’s a diary, or a journal, if you prefer,” Tom Sr. explained. “I imagine you get lonely and need a place to put down your thoughts, so... there you have it. I was going to wait until you started school, but I figured there was no harm in giving it to you a little early.” 

As his father prattled on, Tom turned the plain black book over to see that it was embossed; ‘T.M. Riddle’ shone in gold letters, and Tom ran his hand over them curiously.

“Thank you, father, for the wonderful gift,” he said finally, his tone even and eerie. 

Tom Sr. nodded and excused himself while Tom ran to his desk to sit down and write. 

_1 August, 1937_

_I feel rather ridiculous addressing something that will only ever be read by me, so I won’t do it here._

_I don’t belong here. With the Riddles, that is. I know they’re my family, and anything is better than Wool’s, but still. If I belonged anywhere, it would be with my newest... acquaintance, Hermione. She’s the only one who understands what it’s like to be special. To be different._

_She says her mother and father are okay with what she is. I wonder what that feels like._

_At some point, I plan on asking father about mother. I think I’ve heard whispers about her, but no one has ever told me anything about her directly. I think she did something to father; something not good. Maybe that’s why father expects me to learn to control my talents. Is it possible she hurt him in some way?_

_Either way, I’m going to ask him about her one day, even if it takes a while to work up the courage. I deserve an answer; she was my mother, after all._

_It will be interesting to see if grandfather is well or if he becomes more cruel after what I did to his glass. He’s been the most difficult out of anyone since I’ve arrived, and I have a strange feeling he does not like me very much. Or at the very least, he’s wary of me. If he’s wary of me, I won’t mind; better to be feared and left alone than coddled and smothered to no end. How Hermione manages having two doting parents is beyond me; perhaps I’ll write to her and ask._

_She’d asked me to write to her, before she left. And I suppose that is what I’ll do._

_\- Tom_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there’s the diary!
> 
> I tried my best to find a cool way for him to receive it in this AU, and it being a gift from Tom Sr. made the most sense. What did you think?


	5. A Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo lovely readers! Here’s the latest chapter, which admittedly is basically filler but we get to enjoy more young Tom, so why would we be mad about that???

_31 December 1937_

Tom was on holiday from school when the strange man showed up on their doorstep. Funnily enough, the man arrived right on Tom’s eleventh birthday. Tom had been circling the kitchens all morning, trying to sneak a peek at what type of cake the cook was making him when the doorbell rang, and he skidded out into the entryway to find his father ushering a man into the parlor. 

The man was about the same height as his father, but clearly older, with greying auburn hair and a long beard. He also wore a fine suit which was a shade of plum; it seemed too nice to be a normal suit, and almost had a strange shimmer to it. 

Naturally, Tom was curious and followed the two into the parlor. 

When he entered, the strange man fixed his eyes on him and seemed to appraise him for a moment. There was something about his state that made Tom squirm a bit; the twinkle in his blue eyes was almost unnerving. 

“You must be Tom,” he stated. “I’m Professor Dumbledore. And I have something for you.”

Tom glanced at his father out of the corner of his eye before focusing back on Professor Dumbledore. He watched as he pulled an envelope out of his pocket, and Tom took it from his outstretched hand when he offered it to him.

“What brings you all the way here to Wales, Professor?” Tom Sr. inquired. “And could I interest you in a drink? Brandy, perhaps?”

“It is never too early for a brandy,” Dumbledore hummed. “Thank you, Mr. Riddle. And to answer your question, I’m here because of something I’m sure you’re already aware of. I’m here because Tom is... special, because he’s different. He can do things that other children have only ever dreamed of doing. And there is a school for children like Tom.”

Tom frowned. He didn’t like the sound of what Dumbledore was saying. It sounded more like he was being taken to a hospital than an actual school. 

“You don’t believe me?” Dumbledore asked him. Tom shook his head. “Open your letter, then.”

Without any further instruction, Tom opened the envelope and took out the parchment inside. Written in shining green ink, Tom found that the letter was indeed addressed to him.

“‘Dear Mr. Riddle,’” he began. “‘We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July. Yours sincerely, Albus Dumbledore, Deputy Headmaster.’”

“So... you’ll teach him how to control... whatever it is he has?” Tom Sr. asked.

“Yes, Mr. Riddle. At Hogwarts, Tom will not only learn how to control his magic, but how to harness it. I myself will be instructing him in Transfiguration,” Dumbledore replied. 

While Tom Sr. continued to ask questions, Tom sat in relative silence and stared down at his letter. If there really was a school where he could learn how to properly use his magic — words could not describe how good it felt to finally have a word to call his capabilities — then Hermione must have received a letter as well? Tom would have to write to her, he decided. But then he looked up at Professor Dumbledore; the old man had to have visited the Grangers as well. Perhaps he could ask about them.

Dumbledore had finished instructing Tom Sr. as to how to go to the place where they would get Tom’s school supplies when he finally looked back at Tom.

“Do you have any questions, Tom?” he inquired.

“Actually, yes,” Tom said. “I was wondering, sir, if you’ve gone to visit Hermione Granger. She can do the same things I can, so she must be a... a witch?” 

Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to twinkle even more. 

“I visited Miss Granger back in September,” he confirmed. “You’ll be off to school with her next fall.”

At the sound of the stairs creaking, alerting all in the sitting room of someone’s eminent approach, Tom and Tom Sr. both turned. Neither were surprised to see a rather cross Thomas Riddle appraising both his grandson and the peculiarly dressed visitor that was drinking his brandy. 

“What’s going on here?” Thomas questioned. 

Tom Sr. swallowed hard and got to his feet to make introductions. “Father, this is Professor Albus Dumbledore,” he introduced. “He’s come to inform us that Tom has been accepted into a special school where he’ll be able to learn how to control his... abilities better.”

“Bah!” Thomas scoffed as he moved further into the room. “A good switch will teach him better than some... old fool in velvet suits.” He squinted critically at Dumbledore.

“I would well advise you against using corporeal punishment when he has incidents of accidental magic,” Dumbledore spoke up. “Such actions can cause a magical individual to... become more volatile as the magic goes inward. It would pose a greater danger to yourselves and to Tom.” He turned his attention to Tom Sr. “It is in all of your best interests that Tom attend Hogwarts starting next year.”

“I agree,” Tom Sr. nodded. “We wouldn’t want things to get... worse.” 

“Where is Hogwarts, professor?” Tom inquired.

“The castle — for it is indeed a castle — is located in Scotland. It sits on vast grounds, which stretch from the Forbidden Forest all the way to the Black Lake. And when you’re an older student, you’ll even be able to visit the nearby village, Hogsmeade,” Dumbledore replied. “One’s years at Hogwarts are often the happiest for our kind... I am sure you will find your place there.”

Oh, Tom was certain he would. To be around people just like him would be vastly refreshing compared to school now, or home for that matter. While he tolerated most of his classmates at school and his grandmother and father, there were a few of his peers that made life miserable at times — not to mention how horrid his grandfather could be.

(Of course, he found it was easy to get back at his classmates when they couldn’t prove how he’d manage to hurt them in such creative and unusual ways...)

But to spend the better part of the year far from his grandfather seemed almost like a reward. 

“Sounds like a fairy tale,” Thomas grunted. “I won’t pay good money for him to be taught parlor tricks. Besides, he’s going to attend Harrow.”

“A good school by Muggle standards, sir,” Dumbledore allowed. “But Hogwarts... if I may equivocate, is the Harrow of the wizarding world. Merlin himself was educated there.” This made Tom frown slightly; surely Merlin wasn’t real?

“He was real?” Tom asked incredulously.

“Indeed he was,” the patient professor confirmed. “What, did you think the stories were just made up? They had to come from somewhere.” 

Tom’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How am I supposed to believe you?”

“Would you like to see me do magic?” Tom watched as Dumbledore pulled a wand from his pocket and pointed it at his empty brandy glass. With a flick of his wrist, it was transformed into a shimmering serpent. And just as Thomas began to protest, he turned it back. “Well, I’m afraid I must get going. I will see you in the autumn, Tom.”

And as mysteriously as he appeared, Professor Dumbledore left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore! I’m not sure if Tom and Dumbledore will actually have that different of a relationship, but I’d say that meeting went well? Let me know what you think!


	6. Serpents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been one of my favorite chapters to write, so I hope you all enjoy it too; I don’t want to give much away so I’ll have some more to say at the bottom.

_July 1938_

“Come on, Hermione, hurry up!” Tom shouted, flying down a hill on his bicycle as fast as he could. Coming up behind him just as fast was Hermione, whose curls flew back from her face as she coasted down the hill. They both came to a screeching halt at the bottom, and stared at the ramshackle structure before them. 

It was a place Tom had always been curious about; his father had always warned him not to go past there. The resident was supposedly a raving madman who had it out for the Riddles. But, being a young boy and ever curious, Tom had decided to explore. And with Hermione visiting, it was the perfect time as he had backup should anything turn south. 

They slowly pedaled closer to the rotting fence and hedge surrounding the equally decrepit shack, trying to catch a glance of the man who lived there. 

“Tom, I don’t know about this,” Hermione hissed. The place gave her the shivers.

“Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, Hermione,” Tom grinned devilishly, his eyes twinkling with dark mischief. “Don’t you want to get a closer look?”

“I’d rather not!” she complained.

As soon as the words left her mouth, Tom shushed her and came to a halt, planting his feet on the ground on either side of his bicycle. His brows furrowed as he heard a familiar hissing; it was familiar to him because he could understand it perfectly. It was his secret language, his language with the snakes. He’d always used it whenever they’d gone to the countryside when he was in the orphanage, but he hadn’t dared use it in front of his family yet; he didn’t want to think of what creative things his grandfather would have to say if he knew he could talk to snakes.

_“Hissy, hissy, little snakey, slither on the floor... You’ll be good to Morfin or he'll nail you to the door,”_ the voice taunted. Tom could also hear worried hissing from the snakes themselves; none of them seemed to fond of the game the man, Morfin, was playing.

“Tom!” Hermione complained as he got off his bicycle.

_“Come here,”_ he hissed as he crouched near the hedge. _“Tell me why you’re afraid.”_

Hermione nearly shrieked when a small cluster of grass snakes slithered through the hedge. She hadn’t understood what Tom had said, but it was as if he’d summoned them. In an almost morbid fascination, she watched as one wrapped around Tom’s wrist and hissed softly to him in response. As soon as the snake ceased to hiss, Tom bolted upward.

“We need to go,” he told Hermione. 

But it was too late. A bolt of red shot right past Hermione’s head, barely missing her, and they both turned to see a grotesque image of a man storming toward them. 

_“Who trespasses on the house of Gaunt?”_ the man demanded. 

Hermione recognized whatever language Tom had used to summon the snakes to be the same one the man was using, and watched as the little grass snake around Tom’s wrist quickly slithered up his sleeve. While the sensation would have frightened Hermione, Tom didn’t seem fazed at all.

_“You’re the man who lives in this house?”_ Tom asked, deciding it best to question him in the secret language. _“You don’t look so frightening to me. Just sad.”_

While Hermione couldn’t be sure, it seemed like Tom was taunting the man. But the man lowered his wand to appraise Tom, paying no mind to her — which Hermione certainly didn’t mind. She’d much rather he disappear back into his shack and leave them alone, but by the smug look on Tom’s face she could tell she wouldn’t be so fortunate.

_“You look like that great Muggle from the great house,”_ the man hissed. _“Yet you sound like a snake...”_ A look of realization dawned on the man’s face, and his lips curled into a deranged grin. _“A half-snake, a half-snake, you are... not good enough, not pure enough, but half-snake you are...”_

Tom’s brow furrowed. _“What are you talking about?”_ he questioned. _“I demand you tell me!”_

_“A baby-snake,”_ the man chortled. _“Too young. Too dumb. Slither ’way, baby-snake! Slither back to that great muggle father of yours!”_

“Tom, we should go...” Hermione mumbled, watching warily as his fists clenched at his sides. “We need to be back for supper... everyone will wonder where we’ve gotten off to, and I don’t want to get into trouble...”

Her voice broke through the intensity and Tom turned back to her. 

“You’re right,” he admitted. By the time he spoke to her, the man had lost all interest then and had returned inside his shack. Hermione had a strange feeling the man had said something interesting to Tom, but she knew better than to pry; Tom was a strange boy, only sharing what he wanted you to know and keeping his cards close to his chest. He wasn’t as open as most children, but Hermione summed it up to his having been raised in an orphanage. 

By the time they’d pedaled all the way back up the hill to the Riddle’s, supper was just about to put out. Tom and Hermione stashed their bicycles in the back near Mr. Bryce’s cottage, and ran into the kitchen. Mrs. Hawkins tutted at them as they hurriedly scrubbed their hands before racing to the dining room.

“How good of you to finally join us,” Thomas Riddle scowled. 

“Did you have a nice ride?” Mr. Granger inquired, cutting the tension slightly as Tom and Hermione sat down. 

It was then that Hermione realized that Tom had forgotten to put the little grass snake back down in the hedge. She gulped and soon focused on the plate in front of her, stabbing a piece of grapefruit with her fork while Tom held a conversation with his father about football. 

“I wonder if they will have a sport at Hogwarts,” Tom Sr. pondered aloud. “I’m sure those magic folk could come up with something.”

“I don’t understand why we are talking of such things at the table,” Thomas chided.

“Now, really,” Mary sighed. “Is this any way to speak when we have guests?”

“Well she’s one of them too!” Thomas waved his butter knife flippantly at Hermione, causing Mr. Granger to stiffly put down his own utensils. “Just as strange as him!”

“Take that back,” Tom snarled. 

“Tom,” the warning tone in Tom Sr’s voice could not be missed. Underneath the table, Hermione grabbed Tom’s hand and squeezed it. “Watch yourself.”

“No matter,” Thomas continued, “at least we all will be rid of you for the better part of the year when you go to that cursed school... if it even exists, mind you. I certainly have my doubts!” And so on and so forth, he continued throughout supper. 

Hermione found his words extremely hurtful and once or twice tried her best not to let her emotions get the better of herself, but he seemed to trigger the opposite response in Tom; where he first was angry and filled with rage, he soon appeared cold and detached from what his grandfather was saying. It was almost alarming.

But what he said to her that night as they brushed their teeth was even more alarming.

“Someday, Hermione,” he said, “I’ll make all the people like him disappear. And then it’ll just be you and me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! A nice, interesting cameo from Tom’s mother’s family! Addressing the fact that Morfin would have been back in Little Hangleton around the same time Tom arrived seemed like something I could have overlooked, but I felt like there was too much history between Morfin and Tom Sr for there not to be some curiosity about the Gaunt Shack for Tom.  
> What did you all think?


	7. Enemies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the Hogwarts Express!  
> Also... happy birthday to Tom!!!

_1 September 1938_

Hermione sat on the train, looking out the window. She’d finished the one book she’d brought with her on the train, and having already read the year’s textbooks twice, she’d decided to let her mind wander for once.

Her companion on the train, however, was fully engrossed in a re-reading of Hogwarts: A History.

When the never-ending bombardment of green outside bored her, Hermione turned and looked at Tom. He didn’t bother to look up from the book, opting instead to turn yet another page. She huffed, but he didn’t dare look up at her.

“Tom,” Hermione said. 

“Hermione, did you know—”

“I’ve read the book three times, Tom,” she reminded. “I think I know whatever stimulating fact you’re about to share with me.”

With a small groan, Tom put the book aside and stared out the window. When the trolley cart passed, he bought a chocolate frog, biting the head off with a quick chomp before examining the card he’d gotten. It was of a man named Bowman Wright, who had created the Golden Snitch. 

Tom had learned plenty about the Golden Snitch along with all the other aspects of Quidditch in the weeks since his first trip to Diagon Alley; he’d devoured a complete history of the sport in one sitting because he’d become fascinated by it. 

Until he learned that first years rarely made the house teams at Hogwarts, that is. 

A rapping on their compartment door drew both Hermione and Tom’s attention away from their treats, and a young man stepped inside.

“Hello there,” he greeted. “I’m Edmund Brown, I’m one of the prefects. Are you both first years?”

Tom and Hermione nodded.

“I’m Hermione Granger,” she provided.

“Tom Riddle,” Tom followed. He glanced at the crest on the boy’s robes. “You’re in Gryffindor.”

The boy, Edmund, grinned a toothy grin and patted the crest. “Indeed I am. Best house there is, especially with Professor Dumbledore as the head. Of course, all the other houses have good aspects to them, except maybe Slytherin. But even if you end up there, there’s a nice bloke or two in that house. But I came in to tell you both that we should be arriving soon, so you’ll want to change into your robes.”

Hermione smiled brightly at Edmund and thanked him. Tom didn’t say a word. 

“Oh, come now,” Hermione sighed at him as she gathered her uniform from her trunk. “Tell me you aren’t going to be in a sour mood because he talked ill of Slytherin. We’ve been through this, Tom; you’re probably going to end up in Ravenclaw.”

“I just don’t see why everyone hates the Slytherins,” Tom retorted. “Ambition isn’t a bad thing.”

“No one’s saying it is,” Hermione pointed out.

“Then why are you taking his side and acting like Slytherin is bad? We haven’t even been sorted yet; you don’t know what the houses are actually like,” he shot back. 

At his quick remarks, Hermione stuck her chin out. “You’re right, but neither do you!” she huffed before storming out to change. Tom followed her out of the compartment and went his own way to change. He trained his features, putting on the impassive mask he’d perfected at the orphanage. It proved rather useful, especially when any of his fellow first years seemed a bit too curious about him. 

Of course, it couldn’t dissuade all students.

“Hey,” a taller, stockier blond boy called after him. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

Tom stopped and pivoted back to face his fellow student. The boy was much bigger than he, with shockingly white-blond hair and an upturned nose. Just by looking at him, Tom could tell he wasn’t going to get along with him too splendidly.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked.

“What’s yours?” Tom fired back. “Seems only fair you tell me first, since you went out of your way to get my attention.”

A few other boys were behind the blond boy, and they all broke out into murmurs.

“The name’s Abraxas. Abraxas Malfoy,” the blond boy provided. “And yours, mudblood?”

Tom didn’t quite understand the meaning of what the boy, Abraxas, had called him, but he knew it was insult. Clearly Abraxas came from an all-magic family, which gave Tom two options: he could try and use one of the basic spells he’d learned on him or he could settle things the way muggle boys did. Trying to use magic on someone who’d grown up around it seemed like a terrible idea, so Tom, ever practical, opted for his second plan. 

“I’m Tom. Tom Riddle,” he stated. “Oh, and Abraxas?”

The blond boy laughed. “Wha—?”

Before Abraxas had the chance to finish mocking him, Tom’s fist had collided directly with his nose. This caused a great ruckus to erupt, with Abraxas and his cronies trying to chase Tom down. Thankfully, Tom was smaller and quicker, and darted out of their grasps. Other students began to look out of their compartments to see what was happening, and Tom almost escaped until he collided with a figure much larger than him.

“Malfoy,” the figure barked at Abraxas. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

The blond, whose nose was still gushing blood and appeared broken, pointed at Tom. “The mudblood hit me!” he shouted.

“And did you deserve it?” the older boy asked. 

Tom snorted as Abraxas tried to maintain his innocence.

“Go back to your compartment,” the older boy ordered. “All of you.” He looked down at Tom, and Tom realized he was dressed in the Slytherin uniform and had a shining pin that proclaimed he was Head Boy. “What’s your name?”

“Tom Riddle,” Tom replied.

“Sebastien Lestrange,” the Head Boy shared. “My brother, Antonin, is a first year as well; best of luck with your sorting.”

“Thank you,” Tom nodded, going about his business.

When the train finally arrived, Tom wasn’t sure what to think. And when they got into the boats to cross the Black Lake to the castle and Abraxas Malfoy got into the same boat his him and Hermione, he was certainly uneasy.

Hermione watched the way he stiffened slightly at the presence of the blond boy — his bruised knuckles when he’d returned to their compartment hadn’t missed her notice — and she frowned.

“Fighting already?” she hissed.

Tom said nothing. Hermione frowned slightly and looked ahead, taking in the sight of the castle in all its glory.

But he stayed by her side until her name was called for sorting.

Professor Dumbledore placed the old hat on her head, and in a quick instant, it called out “Gryffindor!” and she was welcomed into a sea of burgundy and gold. 

When Tom finally was called up, she held her breath and hoped for Ravenclaw. He looked over at her and gave her a small smile, the smallest of smiles, but as soon as their eyes met the hat made its decision.

“Slytherin!” it declared. 

Hermione’s heart sank, but she remembered one of their talks from the summer.

“Regardless of what happens, you’re my closest friend,” she had assured them while they explored the grounds of Riddle House. 

“Regardless of what happens, I’ll always be with you,” Tom had told her.

If only she’d known then what would become of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, meeting Abraxas is always interesting. Did you guys like that Tom punched him? It makes me chuckle.
> 
> Also, the next chapter will include a big time jump; you have been warned.
> 
> See you next time!


	8. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter of the time jump; I decided to take a major leap through time because I decided that most of what was going to happen during Tom and Hermione’s school years wasn’t going to look very different from other fics and I wanted to take a different path with this story.
> 
> That being said, here’s chapter eight!

_April 1948_

When Hermione closed up the used book shop for the night, the four figures standing outside in the alleyway had been the last people she’d ever expected to see anywhere near her little shop. They were four familiar figures, to be certain; they’d all graduated from Hogwarts with her back in 1945, though they’d gone quickly into politics. While she rarely read the Prophet, all four were on the Wizengamot with... well, they all held distinct positions of power.

Once upon a time, it had been thought that Hermione would be amongst them; she’d been Head Girl, been part of the Slug Club despite not belonging to the potions master’s house, and was well-regarded amongst all her peers and teachers. 

But something was rotten in the Ministry of Magic. So she made it her business to stay out of politics completely.

“Malfoy,” she greeted the sneering blond first. “Lestrange, Nott... Avery. And just where might your handler be?” Her hand was wrapped loosely around her wand, just in case. Hermione didn’t think whatever was about to happen would evolve into an all-out duel, but it was never a bad thing to be prepared. 

“I suppose you could say he sent us to do his dirty work,” Lestrange smirked. 

The hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck stood up and she gripped her wand tighter. So that was how it was going to end; he hadn’t even come to take care of her himself. 

“Dirty work?” she mused. “Surely it’s not time for me to meet an untimely end? Wouldn’t you agree he has too much blood on his hands already?” Avery, still as hotheaded as he had been when they were in school, took an aggressive step toward her with his wand drawn, forcing Hermione to draw hers. “I wouldn’t step much closer, Avery, if I were you.”

“You were never worth your weight in anything when it came to a duel,” Nott mocked. “Malfoy, let’s grab her and get out of here.”

Taking on just Avery, or perhaps Avery and Nott, would have been easy enough for Hermione to handle; she’d been a better duelist than Nott had given her credit, and she’d only gotten better. But with Lestrange and Malfoy also closing in on her, Hermione had limited options. She could attempt to apparate, but there was a risk of one of them grabbing her and splinching her. Or she could give a bit of a fight and then let them take her wherever they were supposed to take her. 

Throwing a few offensive spells at them, she gave the appearance of putting up a fight, but was easily stunned and apparated out of the alleyway before anyone could even check on the slight ruckus. 

When they reappeared in whatever their destination was, Hermione immediately turned on the four and even managed to disarm Nott before an unusually strong stunning charm hit her square between the shoulder blades. Whatever spell it was, it was modified in some way, as she did not fall flat on her face as she expected, but almost hovered above the ground. 

“I would have expected some more competence out of the four of you,” a far-too-familiar voice drawled. “I would have at least expected one of you half-wits to remember to disarm her before disapparating.”

Hermione was turned around suddenly and made a strong effort to look anywhere but at the man who had spoken to the quartet behind her. She busied herself by examining her surroundings, recognizing the room almost immediately. Two happy summers had passed by her in the room, reading and playing games with the boy who had once been her dearest friend. 

“Such a shame you can’t look me in the eye,” the man hummed. A firm hand, still calloused from hours and hours of gripping a broomstick, cupped her face and turned her head sharply back. 

Hermione looked down for only a moment before finally raising her gaze.

He hadn’t changed much at all since seventh year, when she was forced to share a common room with him. His brows were still strong and well-groomed, and the dark eyes set beneath them still held the slightest mischievous twinkle leftover from childhood. While his nose could have been regal and straight like his father’s, it had been broken one too many times on the Quidditch pitch and he’d never bothered to fix it. 

“There she is,” he murmured. 

“Hello, Tom,” she greeted solemnly, his name heavy on her tongue. 

“Oh, Hermione,” he sighed. “You have no idea how hard it’s been to track you down... and to think that you’ve been hiding under our noses all this time... you truly are the brightest witch of your age. But I think it’s time you come out of hiding, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not at all,” Hermione replied.

Tom scoffed slightly at her refusal and released her face. He strode over to one of the fine leather armchairs in the library and lounged with a predatory grace that Hermione could only describe as snakelike. It amazed her that anyone truly thought of him as a wonderful and trustworthy politician. But when you turn out to be a member of an ancient house that has an open seat on the Wizengamot... the path to power isn’t too difficult. 

“Ah, Hermione, this is where we must disagree,” he told her. “You see, there’s a bit of a problem in Wizarding Britain. It’s a problem most of us are loath to solve due to what it requires of us with... better blood. But it’s a sacrifice we’re willing to make for the strengthening of wizard-kind. After all, Magic is might.”

“Magic is might,” the other men gathered echoed.

“As you know, we’ve begun programs to better integrate witches and wizards from muggle families into our world,” Tom stated. “But their integration is only the first step to better improving the wizarding world. Unfortunately, those of us with older bloodlines must take it upon ourselves to... procreate with your kind.”

Hermione blanched. Surely he wasn’t implying what she thought he was implying?

“No legal action has been taken in this direction yet, but... it’s my belief that someone ought to make an example of how beneficial such a move will be for the wizarding world,” he completed.

“And you plan to use me in order to be that someone,” Hermione surmised.

“You are just as clever as I remember,” Tom praised. “That is exactly what I intend to do, Hermione. Of course, you must excuse the way in which I had to bring you here; I doubted you would come of your own free will, after all.”

“How right you were,” she snorted. 

Rising to his feet, Tom circled around Hermione once before he looked to Abraxas.

“Take her away to her room,” he ordered. “Make sure that someone brings her supper, and confiscate her wand. We can’t have her trying to make a getaway.”

With a wave of his hand, Malfoy and Nott were dragging her from the room. Hermione was shoved into one of the many bedrooms of Riddle House with little ceremony, and she raced for the door as soon as she was no longer stunned, only to pound her hands on the door.


	9. Musings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this.... an update???
> 
> College is a busy, stressful place. But enough about me; without further ado, here’s the next chapter!

She’s prettier than he remembered.

That was the first thought that filled Tom’s head as he sat in the library, twirling his wand absentmindedly as he did. Her hair was still as wild and untamed as ever, but the curls seemed more defined than he’d remembered, as if in her brief adulthood Hermione had found a way to take care of her unruly mane. 

But her eyes were the same amber pools that he’d known in youth; the same smattering of freckles covered her long, slightly upturned nose. Her front teeth were not as large as they’d been upon meeting as children, but that had been an improvement she’d undertaken while they were students at Hogwarts. And while there was much about her that was still the same, Tom was still struck by how pretty he’d found her.

When he’d told Abraxas and the others what they were going to retrieve for him, they’d all chortled and suggested other muggleborns for him to choose. ‘Anyone but Granger,’ they’d chorused. But there was no one quite his equal, pure-blood or not.

She’d always been remarkable, even in their first year at Hogwarts. And while their paths quickly changed and morphed into diametrically opposed ones, he’d never been shy about pointing out her strengths to others, even when he had a reputation to uphold amongst his peers. In three years’ time since their graduation from Hogwarts, it was clear that, while her dueling skills would need improvement, Hermione had not lost any of her talent. 

It made him want her even more.

Abraxas sauntered into the library with a look of defeat plastered on his sharp features. Tom frowned slightly and raised a brow, not bothering to ask what was wrong.

“She’s refusing to eat, My Lord,” he explained.

Tom wasn’t surprised; knowing Hermione, she would make a good show of protesting what she was about to be a part of. Even when they were students, social outrage had been one of her talents; he still remembered her unfortunately-named campaign for elvish welfare, of which she had been the sole champion amongst their peers. 

“She will want to eat eventually,” Tom hummed. “I’m sure having you deliver her food didn’t increase her appetite any.” With a snap of his fingers, Tom summoned a house elf; they had been hired upon the untimely death of his father and grandmother. “Wimsy, would you take Miss Granger her supper, please?”

“Of course, master!” the elf squeaked, disappearing with a sharp pop. 

Abraxas shifted slightly on his feet and Tom tried his best to hide his annoyance. “What is it, Malfoy?” he sneered.

“I... I was just wondering whether you think you’ll get her to turn around,” Abraxas stated. “Without... Without having to resort to more... extreme measures, that is?” Tom scoffed and rose to his feet. He scanned the bookshelves, looking for one of the volumes he’d stocked personally when Riddle House had become his. 

“And what if we do have to resort to extreme measures, Malfoy?” he inquired.

“I... I just thought that because... well, because of your mother, My Lord—”

Tom turned on him in an instant, his wand tucked under his chin. His face was contorted in an anger that even his closest followers were rarely witnesses of; while Tom had never truly loved his father, the man had been good enough to him to be useful (for a time) and was worthy enough that he continued to bear his name. His mother, on the other hand... she’d proven her a disgrace to the name of witch. How Abraxas thought he would dare lower himself to her standards was beyond him.

“Don’t speak of her,” Tom hissed. “Just because I have reaped the benefits of her family’s old, albeit disgraced, name doesn’t mean I wish to think or speak of her. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my lord, but—”

With a huff, Tom turned away and found the book he’d been searching for. “Your concern for Hermione is admirable, Abraxas, but if we must resort to using potions I will not be brewing a love potion,” he explained, plucking a book from the shelves. “Ah, here we are... As I was saying, I won’t resort to creating any sort of artificial feeling; I’ve developed an alternative.”

“Which is...?” Abraxas inquired.

“I have developed an alternate version of Amortentia. Rather than creating feelings of love for whoever administers the potion, it merely... draws genuine feelings that might otherwise be repressed.”

The statement made Abraxas frown. “But My Lord, what if Miss Granger... doesn’t—”

“If she does not, then there will be no effect whatsoever,” Tom said. “And then we must, unfortunately, do away with her and start from scratch. Of course, there are other alternatives, but I find them most unpleasant and worthy of someone like Greyback, not myself.”

Tom himself did not hold with rape; when dealing with Fenrir Greyback, it was the classic case of “hate the sin, love the sinner.” (He also found most of the carnage Greyback was prone to leaving rather unseemly, but once again, he was nothing but efficient — and Tom could appreciate efficiency.)

It would only truly be a matter of time until Hermione was practically clawing the door down to reach him — or at least, she would be putting on a guise of civility so she could be taken to him. The meals she was being taken were all laced with Tom’s new potion, and she would eat. 

Of course, the potion would also need to be altered over time; its original state was merely to encourage her into his bed. There was the other question of actually ensuring that their... union... would result in a child. While Tom wasn’t a master at potions, he knew quite enough from being around Slughorn all those years that the alternation would pose little difficulty. 

All he had to do was wait. 

Upon dismissing Abraxas, Tom rounded his desk and opened the lowermost drawer. Buried beneath stacks of parchment was an old muggle photograph from the second summer Hermione had visited all those years ago. It captured the two of them after one of their many bicycling adventures; Hermione’s grin was still all teeth then, and her hair had been blown into a gigantic cloud of frizz. Tom was beside her, the faintest of grins on his otherwise stern face. 

How different, he mused, they would look when they would grace the front page of the Prophet when he became Minister for Magic, and she his brilliant but doting wife. 

Because Tom had never, not once, imagined rebuilding the world without Hermione by his side. He could watch the whole world burn, as long as it meant she was at his side. Even when he learned that he was indeed Slytherin’s Heir, tasked with ridding Hogwarts of all its muggleborns, he did not cease in picturing a new world with Hermione. And while her place in that world had evolved and changed since they were children, there was one thing and one thing only that Tom was certain of, one thing that brought some semblance of balance to his world.

He had her.

And he’d be damned if he ever let her out of his sight again.


	10. Familiarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.... have no excuse for why I didn’t update sooner. Happy college! And happy new job! Yayyy... enjoy

She’d have thrown herself out of the window if she wasn’t so sure Tom had charmed them not to shatter. 

All other more permanent routes of escape were out of the question, to Hermione’s reluctant relief. She wanted to believe that she could still potentially reason with Tom; that maybe she could talk him out of whatever his grand scheme was. But if there was one thing she knew about Tom Riddle, it was that once his mind was set on something, nothing would stand in his way. 

Her eyes drifted to the tray on her small vanity table; the lovely supper remained untouched, though every time she looked at it, Hermione’s stomach grumbled a little bit more. 

She couldn’t trust it. Not even the plain glass of water. 

A knock at her door drew her attention away from the too appetizing meal. Hermione hoped it wasn’t Malfoy again; dealing with the tosser at school had always been unbearable, but having him be her handler while captive was almost laughable. She heard the door unlock, and turned her head away to stare absentmindedly out the window.

“You haven’t eaten,” a familiar voice noted. 

“I don’t trust the cooks,” she quipped. A warm chuckle came from her visitor and Hermione shivered; how a man so rotten could make such a normal, such an attractive sound was beyond her. It wasn’t right. 

“I employ some of the best house elves in Wizarding Britain,” Tom stated. “I even pay them a living wage, if that makes it any better.”

“It doesn’t, because they still listen to you,” Hermione snarled. 

Tom ignored her biting attack and entered the room further, striding around so he stood in front of her crouched figure. He leaned against the dresser with ease, and when Hermione stole a glance she was struck by how much he truly resembled his father. How upset, she mused, Tom Sr. would be if he knew how his son was treating the daughter of one of his best friends. But alas, Tom Sr. was (almost too conveniently) dead, and all that belonged to the Riddles had become Tom’s. 

“I’ve often wondered exactly where we finally became enemies, Hermione,” he hummed. “Or when, I suppose, is the more appropriate question.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione mused. “Perhaps when you murdered one of our classmates? Or when you killed your entire family? Patricide is messy business, Tom... never ended up well for the Greeks.” 

“And even if I did kill them all, how would you ever prove it, Hermione?” Tom inquired. 

She looked him dead in the eye. “I don’t have to. I just know, and knowing you did those things is all I need to know I never want to think of you the way I did when we were children, or in any other positive way for that matter,” she snapped. “There is no way you will ever get me to love you, Tom. Unless, of course, you decide to take alternative action. And that worked so well for your mother—”

Hermione suppressed a yell of pain when Tom lunged forward and grabbed her by the arms. He shoved her against one of the posts of the four poster bed, his face mere inches from hers. When she refused to make eye contact with him, he grasped her face with one hand and turned her head forcefully to hold her there. 

“Don’t you dare speak of her,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare speak of that embarrassment. I will not lower myself to such desperation, Hermione... because you forget one thing.”

“What’s that?” Hermione grit her teeth.

“You loved me once before,” he reminded. “So you can love me again.”

With an exclamation of disgust, Hermione pushed Tom away as hard as she could. He faltered and took a few steps back. She let herself take in his appearance and felt a chill run down her spine. 

He looked positively wild, like Heathcliff after a day wandering the moors. His eyes shown with both rage and perhaps a bit of lust, and his shirt was slightly disheveled from how hard she’d pushed him away. Beneath the white cotton, his chest rose and fell heavily, another sign of the unparalleled rage he was feeling toward her. A small voice in the back of her head sung in victory at getting him so riled up, but most of Hermione only felt fear at the sight of him.

When the silence felt almost too heavy, she broke it.

“That’s not how love works, Tom,” she murmured. “I loved you once, yes, but you were like my brother. You were the only person I knew who understood what it was like to be... different.”

“And now?” he questioned. 

“And now?” Hermione echoed, a laugh almost bubbling up in her throat. “Tom, no one can learn to love their captor. That sort of thing only happens in fairy tales.” 

It did almost feel like a fairy tale, though. There, before her, stood the wild, arrogant prince, demanding her love in exchange for some semblance of freedom. And she was, for all intents and purposes, the damsel in distress. While she was loath to admit it, once upon a time Tom had been the Prince Charming in her childhood fantasies; but now he was the wicked prince, determined to keep her from a better life.

He said nothing more, simply looking at her for a moment longer before retreating from the room. As soon as the door locked behind him, Hermione let out a shaky breath and collapsed on the bed.

Hermione had recognized the room she was locked in as the one that had always been hers when she’d visited the Riddles; she was sure that had not been done on accident. It was all part of Tom’s plan to draw some sort of positive emotion out of her. She imagined he thought the familiar surroundings would bring back happy memories. He was wrong, of course; it only gave her pain.

Curious, Hermione reached for the nightstand; inside its drawer was a worn copy of the King James Bible. But, if she turned to the right page, she wondered if it was still there. 

Hermione turned to Genesis 29:25 and, sure enough, the object she’d tucked away years ago was still pressed between the pages. Carefully, she removed the old black and white photograph and looked down at it. Staring back at her were two children she hardly recognized; one had a mess of frizzy dark hair, while the other had perfectly groomed hair that was darker than the other’s. They stood in the drive, bicycles at their sides and smiles on their faces. 

Gingerly, she brushed a hand over the image of the two happy children, wondering what had become of them. It pained her now to know the answer. 

As the sun sank lower and lower in the distance, Hermione ignored the rumbling protests of her empty stomach and rummaged through the wardrobe and dresser until she found a comfortable enough nightgown. 

Once she was dressed for bed, she pulled back the heavy green comforter and slipped between the sheets. The old photograph was tucked beneath her pillow, and she kept one hand over it as she softly cried herself to sleep.


	11. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it...? Could it be... an update? It is! I am trash but here is chapter 11. Enjoy :)

Three days had passed and Hermione still refused to eat or drink anything. Tom hadn’t gone to see her since their interaction the day she’d been brought in, but he was growing frustrated with her and decided that enough was enough. She would eat and drink that day. She had to, or else she was going to likely die from dehydration; something Tom would rather not witness. Such common and mortal ways of dying were unappealing, especially when he found there were much more creative ways to make sure someone met an untimely end.

Rising from his seated position behind his desk, Tom strode out of the study and in the direction of Hermione’s room. He didn’t bother knocking, bursting in like he owned the place — which, of course, he did.

She was curled up on the bed, looking, for lack of a better description, like death. 

Her face was pale and ashen, and there were prominent dark circles under her eyes. And she was too weak to truly glance up at him, her half-lidded eyes looking at him for only a moment. Tom bit back a sigh and picked up a glass of water from her vanity. 

“No,” Hermione mumbled as he sat beside her, holding the glass to her lips. But she was too weak to push him away. 

“Hermione, you can’t go on like this,” Tom reasoned. “You’ll feel much better if you drink.”

His wand hand itched; while he was above using an actual love potion on her, he wasn’t above using the Imperius curse to get her to take care of herself. 

She shook her head again and Tom pressed the glass more insistently. 

The contents splashed onto her chapped lips and he watched as her dry tongue peeped out and cautiously ran itself over the moisture. 

Tom’s eyes lit up with the familiar glow of victory. And the effects of the water, thanks to it being charmed, were almost instant; Hermione looked herself again, and sat up slowly. Her eyes had yet to meet his own, but he knew when they did that it would be all over. 

She would be his.

It was something Tom had pondered often, at least since he was old enough to understand what desire was. While he didn’t necessarily feel the desire that his peers had felt (it had often seemed to him that Abraxas would rut against anything that moved), Tom’s wanting for Hermione had been nothing but constant. 

Because she was his; he’d, admittedly, known it since they were children. When her magic appeared due to her anger toward him, he’d been struck with the fact that, at the time, they were the only two people in the world with such powers.

Of course, he’d been wrong. But during school, he learned that she was truly the only witch capable of displaying a caliber of talent somewhere close to his own.

And when the scourge of teenaged hormones that even Tom could not avoid were mixed in to his appreciation for Hermione... well, the combination had all but sealed his fate. But the expectations placed upon him as a member of Slytherin kept him from truly doing anything about his desires until they were well-removed from school.

He almost had done something, when they were seventh years.

_Tom was lounging in the Head Common Room, his potions homework well-forgotten on the coffee table that separated the sofa on his side of the room from the two overstuffed armchairs that Hermione had claimed as her own._

_The door to the common room swung open and he glanced in its general direction, raising a brow slightly as Hermione marched in from the Prefects’ bathroom._

_She was wrapped in a fluffy white towel, her curls now damp and hanging around her face rather limply. The scent of her soap hit his nose and Tom quietly cursed the smell of roses; when it wafted up from the Amortentia Slughorn had shown them in sixth year, Tom had sought out the culprit of such a smell for weeks until he discovered it was, indeed, Hermione._

_Not a word was spoken between the two as Hermione made her way toward her dormitory; it wasn’t unusual for them to not exchange a single word unless it was for their duties as Head Boy and Girl._

_The lack of spoken word did not stop Tom from taking a good look at her, of course._

_His gaze wandered up her legs, which appeared freshly-shaved, to the edge of her towel. Tom’s eyes darkened when he thought of how it would be so simple to make that towel disappear; just one flick of his wand and it would pool at her feet..._

_His wand hand twitched._

_It would be worth it to see the shock and embarrassment on her face, and to finally get to see her in the way Tom had only dreamed about; of course, she’d quickly cover herself and likely turn on him with her own wand, which would only fracture the mild peace they’d established in their shared living space. So he simply twisted the Gaunt ring on his finger and watched her retreat._

_How he longed to follow after her! Tom wondered how she would react; any other girl in the castle would turn into a puddle at his feet if he followed them into their dormitory. But Hermione?_

_He was never sure. He suspected she knew that Hagrid wasn’t responsible for Myrtle’s death, and he was sure she suspected him of being guilty of his grandfather’s death, but did she know?_

_Did she know who he was? Who he_ truly _was?_

_The thought sent a thrill coursing through him. Asserting his power, his true status over Hermione was one of his most frequent fantasies; to have a talented witch like her under his thumb, to make her completely vulnerable to him... it was too much._

_And all that kept him from truly going through with it was the separation of a door._

_Tom couldn’t bear it; he rose to his feet and crossed the distance to her door as swiftly as possible. He contemplated knocking, but instead reached for the doorknob. Just as he was about to turn it, the door swung open._

_The lack of space between them made his heart pound. She looked up at him, and her eyes shone with an emotion he couldn’t quite read._

_“Goodnight, Tom,” she murmured, her eyes searching his for a moment. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”_

_He swallowed hard. “I just wanted to remind you of the potions homework due tomorrow,” he stated. “I know your grades haven’t been anywhere close to mine this term, so I thought you’d want to work a little harder to catch up.” The mask he wore slipped perfectly back into place._

_Something in her gaze faltered, as if she expected something else. “Of course,” Hermione mumbled. “Again, goodnight...”_

_And without a word, she quickly closed the door._

He’d missed his chance then, but Tom would be damned if he missed it now. Now, since it was practically in his grasp and there was nothing that could stop him this time. 

“Hermione,” he breathed, his voice low and rough. “Look at me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know there’s not a lot of the Riddles yet; we’ll get to introductions of their personalities in the next chapter. 
> 
> Let me know if this is any good... because if it isn’t my best I might ditch it so I can work on my comp fic.


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